What It Means
by Albino Magpie
Summary: It's his birthday, and he's going to pieces.


**A/N: **You have been warned - politics, psychology and selfcest. Also, lots of cursing. All just to wish you guys a happy 4th.  
Please don't hate me, Alfredians, I promise I'm not trying to be mean or spiteful. I just have a really odd way of wishing our favourite (anti)hero a very happy birthday. With lots of fireworks.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

While the tone of hopefulness has been worn out most nations' voices within their first century, America still carries it with the same incorrigible, arrogant, inspirational pride as his flag.

With five centuries to his name and barely more than two to his independence, he has seen more than many of the others. He has seen blood on other's hands, and he's seen it on his own. He knows - and has - striking inventiveness and striking backwardness. He has seen glory and tragedy, and caused both.

While his age and mindset barely mark him as adult compared to those next to him, his misery is as wide as his plains, and his happiness is high as his mountains. He is _it_, he is a world power, he's big and influential and independent.

He is also fucking sick of being blamed for everything that's wrong with the western world.

His birthday is _not _the right day to go into a low at all, but does that stop his moods? No.

Depressed people often can't stand the sight of their own face in the mirror. America can't stand the sight of his flag.

Funny distaste to develop on July 4th, when the damn thing is plastered _everywhere_.

From where his face is buried in a stack of pillows, he addresses the man standing at the window.

„Commerce. Suppression. Hate and fundamentalism and full-out pigheaded stupidity. That's what every-fucking-one thinks our flag means."

Maybe that's exaggerating things, but he's just _sick _of people hating him. How do the others cope?

Looking at some of them, maybe they don't cope. Maybe they just go to pieces.

Hasn't he himself done so already?

There are shouts from the street. The noise of people celebrating, the smell of popcorn and hot asphalt that will later be joined by the smell of black powder.

America's cheery brightside turns around, away from the spectacle on the streets, his eyebrows raised over his glasses in a rather mocking expression.

„You mean it doesn't mean that?"

He has to suppress the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet as he does so – that _he _gets to be the voice of reason is rare. Whether his grin comes across as confident or manic is probably a matter of debate. In the very quick walk, not-quite-run, he has developed over time, he crosses over to the enormous bed a currently upset and pissed-off America has installed himself on, and crouches down until they are face-to-face. Or face-to-pillow, as it were.

„Of course it means all that. Of course we've fucked up more than once." His smile is still overly bright as he says that, and the easy tone makes his counterpart raise his head. Is that supposed to cheer him up? What the _hell_?

„Very funny." he retorts, completely nonplussed that he's talking to himself. It really isn't the first time, and this time around, it isn't all bad.

„I mean it," the somehow-still-not-depressed America responds, "we're responsible for some really bad shit. But d'ya wanna know what else we're responsible for?"

„Hm? What would that be, you egotistic, optimistic _smartass_?"

„Look outside."

Outside?

"Fine, if it makes you happy."

He allows himself to get up and away from the safety of the bed, cross to the window and for the first time this today really _look _at the celebrations that fill the streets and also the mind of his people.

His people. Loud and bright and rowdy and _proud. _Proud to be part of him.

"Woah!"

He still jumps at the arms around his waist, because they're both men for all intents and purposes, but even though he's sure that Jack Chick is crying in a corner somewhere, he relaxes back into the embrace.

„This is me. This is you. This is us."

The _us _makes something of that bright happiness grow duller, and he squirms around in the stranglehold(that's definetely exaggerating, he does tend to do that) and takes his own optimism by the shoulders, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that feels every bit like the collision of opposed principles it is. It _hurts _, but in a good way, and he needs it even though he doesn't want it.

That they end up on the bed is more the result of their combined dumb luck than anything else.

„I don't want to go to pieces."

And he doesn't, they twist together and grind and clash and _fit. _

This isn't right, it's not right to be split in half and divided and broken, so they press together warm-soft-painful and _heal _and the rightness of fitting the broken pieces together again makes their combined ectasy blaze all the hotter.

Even his optimistic side's voice is raw and shaky with the attempt to form a clear sentence.

„It means grain and gain and water and work and pride and hope and the will to live." is as far as he gets before his words get tangled up in a low groan, and then the room starts to tilt in a familiar but disconcerting way. It hits both of them like shockwave, the lightning-crack pain/pleasure of breaking and reassembling into just _one_ that has all pieces of _both_.

America lies on his back, facing the ceiling of the Presidential Suite. He feels great, but he feels terrible at the same time. When has the sky gotten so dark?

Wait a minute – the sky has gotten dark?

He jumps up, bounding over to the window and leaning on the sill. A plastic-bitter-sweet smile twists his mouth at the sight of the masses below, but he still can't help to bounce up and down like an excited kid. He loves fireworks, he really does.

The first the rockets explode above, showering the sky with blue-red-white light.

America squints at the enormous flag that is carried between a good dozen of people, and smiles genuinely.

„Happy Birthday." he says aloud to the empty room.


End file.
